


those setting suns (those rising moons)

by skatzaa



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Rituals, Sort Of, Tatooine (Star Wars), Tatooine Slave Culture, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:48:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21618400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatzaa/pseuds/skatzaa
Summary: In preparation for her wedding, Beru Whitesun journeyed out into the desert.
Relationships: Owen Lars/Beru Whitesun
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46
Collections: Star Wars Rare Pairs Exchange 2019





	those setting suns (those rising moons)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [handschuhmaus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/handschuhmaus/gifts).
  * Inspired by [How Ebra the Prophet Was Given the Secret of Tzai by Ar-Amu](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20469590) by [kiwisson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwisson/pseuds/kiwisson). 



> Hello all! Handshuhmaus, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> This was very much inspired by Fialleril's Tatooine slave culture worldbuilding. I also took specific inspiration from kiwisson's fic, where they wrote about the first time that _tzai_ was made by Ebra the Prophet.
> 
> Title loosely taken from the George Ezra song _All My Love_.

As the suns began to set, Beru set out toward the desert.

Her mother followed, a step behind and to the right. On her left, mirroring Josa, stood Suvi, another member of the freed community of Mos Eisley. They would not interfere during her journey; they were there simply to witness.

Beru had many tiny, yellow beru flowers woven into her hair, and wore linens dyed pale yellow with beru petals. Her feet were bare against the rapidly cooling sands at the edge of town, grains sliding over and around and beneath her toes. She walked on, confident that the sands would hold her no matter how they shifted.

Shadows stretched out like the bones of a giant krayt before her as the suns lit Mos Eisley from behind. Beru ignored them and continued onward, further into the desert.

This night was to be her wedding night, but only if she returned from the desert alive.

Owen hadn’t understood, but she hadn’t expected him to, and he had been gracious about her weaving the ceremonies of her heritage into their marriage. She was not a slave, and neither was her mother, but they would not forget.

She continued on, Josa and Suvi falling further behind, allowing Beru to guide herself through the sands.

Tonight, if all went well, Beru would modify her family’s _tzai_ recipe to reflect her union to Owen. If she was marrying a slave or a person of a freed line, they would blend their recipes, but the Larses did not have their own. Instead, she had decided to take what she had learned of Shmi’s recipe, before her death, and marry it to her own. It was the best way she knew to honor Shmi tonight, and though Owen did not fully understand, he had kissed her gently when she told him her plans.

Beru picked her way through the dunes, searching for amee bushes and beru flowers and the rocky outcroppings where tzai grew. 

She found the tzai first, near the mouth of a cave where it would be sheltered from the noonday suns. Its red leaves were gilded with gold by the light of the setting suns. The cave, she left alone; she did not fear what she might find there, but knew that she should not disturb its peace. She whispered her thanks as she cut, careful not to catch herself on the plant’s sharp thorns, and moved on.

She found the amee bushes next, and took from them just one strip of inner bark; enough to make _tzai_ for herself and her husband-to-be, but no more. She thanked the amee bushes as well, and continued on. 

The suns had fully set and the sky was a deep, velvety blue, the stars appearing like holes poked in the fabric of the night, by the time she turned back to Mos Eisley. She had not found the beru flowers, but she would pluck the ones from her hair and clean them to be used instead. 

It was as she was walking back, the sands cold against her skin, that she stumbled across the japor tree. Behind her, Josa and Suvi exchanged words, but their voices were too quiet for her to hear.

Beru had never heard of a japor tree this close to the settlement; either she had traveled farther than she had intended, or the desert, in its strange way, had protected this tree from those who would seek to harvest every bit of it, from its deep reaching roots to the very leaves that fell into the desert sands around it.

Beru stepped forward, leaving her knife in her belt, and broke off a small branch, one that was already split where it joined to the greater limb. She whispered her thanks, and tucked the branch into her pouch beside the tzai and amee bark.

She returned to the settlement, and unwound her braid as she walked, gathering the beru flowers as they fell. These too, she tucked into the pouch at her side. When she stepped into the streets of Mos Eisley, her hair hung loose around her shoulders, and it smelled sweetly of flower petals and pollen.

Josa and Suvi left her at the entrance of the Whitesun home; after tonight, she would call this her home no longer. They would go and let others know that she had returned triumphant, and help with the final preparations for the celebration. 

Beru stepped inside and entered the kitchen, taking the pouch and laying it on the counter. She pulled the pot from its spot and placed it on the stove. She took the water from Owen’s vaporators—his addition to the _tzai_ —and the bantha milk she had purchased that morning, and added them to the pot as it heated. She prepared the tzai leaves and the amee bark, and picked each petal from the beru flowers she had worn. They were all added to the pot at the appropriate time, and then, as she let the mixture simmer, she turned to the japor branch.

It had been many years since Beru had last carved a japor snippet; the wood was difficult to come by, on this side of the valley, and it was normally reserved for the most important occasions. But the memory of her mother guiding her small hands over a similar japor branch came easily, and she turned it over in her hands, searching for the correct angle to begin carving.

The shavings, she ground down and added to the _tzai_ though it was not part of any recipe she had learned. The slimmest portion of the branch she saved, wrapping it in a cloth and setting it aside where she knew her mother would find it. The snippet, she carved with the protective lines she had learned as a small child, and knew well enough to be able to draw with her eyes closed. 

As the _tzai_ finished, the rich scent of it filling the kitchen, a knock came at the kitchen door.

Beru stepped forward and opened it to reveal Owen, holding a bowl of water in his hands. His dark eyes were gentle, and he waited until she motioned to step into the house.

She took the bowl from him and set it aside, reaching again for his hands. They were large and rough, the hands of a farmer, and she cherished their touch. She brought his hands to her face and kissed his knuckles, then released him.

There was enough _tzai_ in the pot to fill exactly two cups, rough clay things that Owen had made himself during their courting. She handed one to him, and kept the other for herself, and then she spoke the sacred words, which he repeated to her in turn, first in the language of the slaves and then again in Basic for his benefit. They drank together, first of the _tzai_ for its warmth, and then from the bowl he had brought, the water cool and soothing.

Beru set the bowl aside again, and drew the japor snippet with its cord from her belt, holding it out to Owen. His fingers cradled hers as he stepped closer, bending to inspect the carvings. She had explained the meaning to him, once, of the markings the slaves and the freed families used, and he in turn had told her what the moisture farmers carved and what they meant. Beru had blended them here, symbols of protection and love and good harvest.

Owen placed the cord around his neck and took her face in his hands, and then he kissed her, the final seal of their marriage. She closed her eyes and leaned into the kiss, hands gripping the front of his tunic. When they broke apart, he smiled at her, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Well met, Beru Whitesun,” he said to her.

“Well met, Owen Lars,” she said in return.

They exchanged another kiss, and she reached up to touch the japor snippet where it rested near his heart. And then they left the house, going to where the community waited to celebrate their union together, with fires and music and dancing, and tales told of Owen and Beru and their families. The first and smallest of the three moons had already risen, barely a sliver of light where it hung above the roofs of Mos Eisley. Beru intertwined their fingers as they walked, and Owen squeezed her hand in return. The taste of _tzai_ lingered on her tongue as she stepped with her husband into the square, the noise of the crowd rising to greet them.

Beru smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Dialogue—or, in this case, very little dialogue—is fun to play with. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated.


End file.
